A Spy in the House of Honey Ice Cream
A recovering food writer and a photographer head south in search of women chefs with stories to tell, traditions to share, and meals to cook
Day 3: Asheville
One day, I’m going to catch up on sleep. Until then, it’s another puffy-faced morning. As usual, I’ve gone to bed with a wet head and my hair has arranged itself in an unpredictable, unruly, tufted manner. Today’s look reminds me of Chopped judge Scott Conant’s new pompadour; after I make this comi-tragic observation, I vow to avoid a mirror for the rest of the day and slap my sunglasses atop my crown, headband-style, to tame the pouf.
As for coffee, I’m saving myself for the site of the next interview. It’s with Chef Number Three at a restaurant in Cashiers, N.C., which is an hour-and-a-half away and takes us past more Baptist churches and realty offices than we can count, and carries us over the Eastern Continental Divide.
My iced coffee was worth waiting for; made from a cold concentrate, it is, despite my affinity for painstakingly poured-over drip brews from third-wave joints, the best joe I’ve had on this trip so far. The whole visit proves full of such surprises. The pastry chef we’ve come to see is not only a sweetheart, but also, more important, a self-taught prodigy — or, that’s what I’m inclined to believe after she describes her key lime pie, which she sneakily boxes up and hands to me as I’m leaving. Graham cracker crusts are one of my weaknesses and an essential component of the key lime pie (if you disagree with either of those statements, we’re not going to be friends, ever). When this Georgia-born cake master told me she made her own graham crackers for her crust — i.e., from scratch — I suspect the sublime.
She and her boyfriend, the restaurant’s executive chef, who’s as kind and upbeat as she, invite me and Melanie into the kitchen, where lunch service was underway. Walking in, we’re hit with the intoxicating smell of onions sauteeing in olive oil. The pastry station is a real highlight.
The added bonus is the gourmet market in the front of the restaurant. Some people get a rush from shopping for shoes, or electronic gadgets. I go crazy in a place stocked with jars of chutney, jam, or caramel sauce; with glass display cases holding homemade charcuterie and wheels of lovingly crafted cheese; with tins of teas from all over the world, or stacks of single-origin bars of dark chocolate. Here, among a carefully chosen array of the region’s small-batch products, samples of pickled mustard sunchokes and carrots are on offer.
Oh my, how pungently sharp these crunchy sweet-and-sour morsels are. They remind me of Italian mustard fruits, but are much less saccharine. I might need to have them for my very own. But how will I transport a jar home? Unless — think, Charlotte; you’ve been here before. Would the shopkeepers be willing to ship to New York? They would? Excellent.
It’s on. Once I commit to a package, I realize I can throw in a few more items — a bottle of olive oil from Georgia, strawberry-basil jam, smoked bacon chipotle sea salt, raspberry pepper jelly, and more.
I don’t call myself the Condiment Queen for nothing. On my way out the door, I grab two brownies, just in case. Melanie picks up two small packets of smoked trout jerky, which looks like something zookeepers might feed to bears or fishermen would use for bait. She says it’s good, and apologizes for the obnoxious odor that’s released into the car as she opens her purchase.
Back to Asheville we go. With four hours to spare before dinner, I return to our not-quite-a hotel (the W company calls it a “vision”; I’m going with “mirage”) to get work done and have a snack, because it’s 4 p.m. and lunchtime has come and gone without a bite (I refused the fishy jerky). How convenient: I have a personal-sized key lime pie at my disposal. My kind of lunch.I wasn’t planning on finishing that pie, per se. Then, I tasted it: Sublime, as predicted. She gets those graham cracker crumbs of hers extra-dark and toasty, and she uses a whole lot of butter.
While I catch up on work, Ms. Dunea, who is overwhelmed with film to process and emails to return, opts for a mind-clearing session and goes to the movie theater across the street to watch what she thinks will be a light distraction — Before Midnight. I’ve seen and loved the flick; “uplifting,” it is not. Halfway through, poor Melanie can take no more drama and is forced to escape her escape. She leaves the theater to explore Asheville and, after walking by numerous storefronts chock-full of wind chimes and retro-style signs with sayings about cats, she finds Malaprop’s. It’s an independent bookstore where writers like David Sedaris, Elliott Holt, and Sheila Heti stop by for readings. One of the most avid readers I know, Melanie can’t help but pick up three books for herself — Anaïs Nin’s A Spy in the House of Love, a collection of Charles Bukowski’s poems, and a signed copy of Edmund White’s The Flâneur: A Stroll through the Paradoxes of Paris.
She continues to stroll through the tie-dye tees of Asheville until her cocktail meet-up with a group of state judges to whom she was introduced back in Raleigh (two days ago). The gavel-strikers are supping at the same place I’m meeting Melanie, Table, a clean, well-lighted and — thank goodness — un-hippified establishment. She has a martini in hand as I arrive, and, after I’ve secured my first glass of wine, it’s bottoms-up mirth from start to finish. Bright spots include the Beausoleil, New Brunswick oysters dressed with green strawberries, which, when eaten in tandem with the briny shellfish, take on a bright sweetness you don’t expect from the unripened berries; a heap of crunchy, fat-soaked, truffle-y toast topped with ham, a thick mushroom-filled gravy, and an over-easy “Headwaters of Poverty” duck egg whose yolk, when cut into, runs out over the whole and makes one gooey, rich mess; and the judges, who keep popping over to check on us and tell us what to do if we’re pulled over by a cop for speeding. (We’re sworn to secrecy; sorry.)
Tipsy and tired, we walk back to our lodgings in better spirits. Our two-people’s court has reached a verdict: We find the defendent, Asheville, not guilty. The un-hotel, however, remains under suspicion.
